The body count I feared kept counting.
Only this time, it wasn't just about sex.
It was about how many pieces of myself I gave away just to feel safe.
Our internship came faster than I expected. I was placed at a small but reputable firm downtown with clean floors, sharp women in heels, printers that hummed like they knew secrets. I liked it instantly.
It was structured, predictable and everything my life wasn't.
I wore confidence like a second skin, even when I was shaking inside.
I answered phones, filed papers, wrote reports with hands that still remembered shaking from fear. But no one saw it. That was the power of performance.
Phil started showing up more.
Not in an obvious way, he just happened to pass by when I left campus, waited outside the firm some evenings, and sometimes brought me food.
"You're working hard," he'd say with that quiet smile.
And I was.
But it didn't feel like enough.
Because behind every smile, behind every file and assignment, I was carrying a secret war.
The fear hadn't left. The message about my mom still haunted me. I changed her routine without telling her.
Asked her to take different routes. I pretended it was just "safety paranoia."
But it was survival.
Phil never asked why I was suddenly colder some days, or why I clutched my phone like a lifeline. He just made himself available.
It was that availability that became dangerous.
Because the more alone I felt, the more I leaned into him.
And that... was exactly what he wanted.
He just allowed me to care, and I did.
But even care can become currency and I was spending too much.
It started small.
Phil mentioned casually that his laptop was faulty.
"I've got this freelance gig," he said. "But my system's acting up. Might lose the job if I can't meet the deadline."
I didn't say anything at first. Just nodded.
But that night, I couldn't sleep. I kept replaying his tone. The way he hadn't asked for anything. The way he looked... tired.
Frustrated…
And somehow still calm.
I had some money saved up from a scholarship allowance.
Not much.
But enough.
I texted him the next morning.
"Want me to send something to help?"
He replied two hours later.
"Only if it won't hurt you."
That message was what did it.
I sent the money.
It felt right at the time. Like I was helping someone who had helped me. He never asked directly. And somehow, that made it easier to give.
That was the beginning.
A few weeks later, it was data.
Then food.
Then transportation for a job interview that he "just missed by a minute."
I didn't notice it right away, but slowly, Phil's problems became mine. Not in a loud, demanding way. But in a quiet guilt-wrapped manner that made me feel like I was the only one who could help him stand.
He never begged. Never complained.
"You talk about him a lot," my roommate, Leila, said one night as we folded laundry in silence.
I froze slightly. "Who?"
"Phil."
I shrugged. "We're just friends."
Leila raised a brow. "Friends that drain your data, your wallet, and your sleep?"
I let out a forced laugh. "It's not like that."
But even as I said it, I heard the way my voice cracked at the edges. The way denial had begun to sound like a habit.
Leila didn't push, but she didn't let it go either. "Just don't forget who you were before all this. Before you started bending."
That line haunted me.
Because she was right.
I had started skipping meals to send him money. I stopped talking to a few friends who warned me to be careful. I told myself I was choosing peace but really, I was choosing silence over confrontation.
Phil never asked too much, but he accepted everything.
And every time I tried to draw a line, he'd say something like,
"You're the only one I can trust."
Or,
"I hate being the kind of man who needs help, but you… you make it feel okay."
It wasn't manipulation in the loud sense.
It was… soft.
Wrapped in validation.
Camouflaged in affection.
He'd compliment my ambition. Tell me I was rare. Call me "his constant." He'd send late-night voice notes about how grateful he was.
So I kept giving.
And he kept taking.
I told myself I was helping someone who had helped me.
That was the excuse I clung to every time I transferred another $20.
Every time I canceled a personal plan to meet up with Phil because "he was feeling low again." Every time I lied to myself that this wasn't becoming dangerously one-sided.
But something shifted the day I got a DM from an unfamiliar account.
The message was simple:
"Be careful. He's not who you think."
I blinked at it.
Then stared at the profile, no photo, no name, no posts. Just a ghost account and five words that made my stomach twist.
I showed Phil that evening when we met outside my internship office. We sat near a quiet café, sipping iced tea he brought. He liked making things feel casual, soft, like nothing could shake him.
When I handed him my phone, he read the message and chuckled.
"Some bored troll…probably jealous."
But something about his laugh didn't land right.
It was... too light.
Too quick.
Like it was rehearsed.
I tilted my head. "You're not even a little curious?"
I thought about all the times he "forgot" to call back. The times he deflected when I asked what we were. The times he let me pay for rideshares, groceries, even part of his rent.
This man had a girlfriend in another city, a whole life he never told me about, and still looked me in the eyes like I was the only woman in his universe.
I should've been angry.
But instead, I felt… small and wholly embarrassed.
Like I'd let myself become the emotional side piece.
The next morning, I showed up to my internship in a sharp blazer and a hollow chest. I smiled through my tasks. Got compliments on my report formatting.
No one saw the girl silently unraveling inside.
But I did.
And now?
I had two choices:
Confront him
Or let him keep thinking I didn't know… and let him show me who he really was.
The scariest part?
I hadn't made up my mind yet.
Phil smirked. "C'mon, Mimi. You know how the internet is. People hate seeing others happy."
I wanted to believe that. But something in me had already begun to fray.
The next day, I found myself scrolling through his Instagram again. I'd done it before, but now I was looking for something.
Anything.
That's when I saw it.
A photo I'd never noticed before posted about two months back. Phil sitting at a restaurant, lazy smile, eyes lit in a way I hadn't seen before.
The caption read:
"Peace looks like her."
In the blurred background, across the table, was a woman's hand.
Manicured nails.
Slim fingers.
A wine glass half-full.
Her face wasn't in the frame, but somehow, the intimacy screamed louder than words.
He had posted that weeks before he started acting close to me. Yet he'd told me, convinced me that he hadn't been seeing anyone in a long time. That he'd been healing. That he wasn't ready to commit yet.
So… who was she?
I tapped the location tag: a rooftop restaurant in Charlotte, North Carolina.
Then I scrolled through the comments. Mostly emojis. Friends dropping "fire" and "you winning bro".
Nothing unusual.
Until I checked the tagged accounts.
And there she was , @Zeerose. A fashion blogger, verified and studying at Howard University in D.C.
Her page was public, so tapped.
The second post nearly knocked the wind out of me.
Phil.. standing behind her, arms wrapped tight around her waist. Same half-lazy smile. She wore a lavender dress. Sunlight in her braids.
Caption: "Long distance ain't for the weak, but you're worth every mile."
Posted just last week.
My blood turned to ice.
So much for not being ready to commit.
So much for you're the only one I trust.
This wasn't just some ex or casual fling. She was current.
Public.
Real.
Loved.
I stared at my phone until the screen dimmed.
Then I opened our chats. Scrolled past the voice notes, the "thank yous," the "I hate asking but…" messages. The late-night "I need to hear your voice" calls.
He never said he loved me.
But he knew I was falling.
And he let me.
That night, I didn't cry. I just sat on my bed, my hands resting on my chest like they were trying to hold in the ache.
Phil texted.
"You're honestly the best thing in my life right now."
"I hope you know that."
I didn't reply.
Not because I was strong.
But because something deeper than sadness had settled in, and that was clarity.
The following week, I kept up the act.
I still texted Phil like nothing had changed. I sent him memes. Asked how his "coding gigs" were going. He responded with his usual mix of vague updates and sweet nothings.
But everything sounded different now.
Because I knew.
I noticed things I hadn't before how he deflected questions about his day. How his excuses always came with flattery. How he said "you're amazing" whenever I brought up something uncomfortable.
He was managing me.
Like a client.
Or worse… an investment.
Still, I kept giving. Not because I still believed in him, but because I wanted to see how far he'd go. And on a cold Friday evening, I found out.
It was 9:42 p.m.
I was curled up in my dorm, watching an old romance flick on mute, when my phone buzzed.
Phil..
"Hey, babe. My laptop's completely dead. Can't finish my client's project tonight. Any chance you can help with $150? I'll pay you back once the job clears."
I stared at the message. Blank.
The gall, the timing ..the expectation. I didn't even flinch.I took a breath.
Typed: "Sure, send your account details."
He replied instantly with a heart emoji.
I didn't send a cent.
Instead, I called Zeerose.
Yes….Her.
I'd found her number on her Instagram business profile a few days earlier and had been staring at it every night like it was a weapon I wasn't sure how to use.
That night, I dialed.
She picked up after three rings, her voice sharp but curious. "Hello?"
"Hi… this is going to sound crazy, but my name is Mimi, and I think we're both in something messy with the same guy."
A pause and long yet cold silence.
Then a slow inhale.
"Phil?"
The confirmation shattered something inside me.
We talked for forty minutes.
Turned out she hadn't seen him in weeks. He had excuses.
Deadlines… "personal stuff."
She had no idea he'd been living off another girl's support.
No idea he called someone else "his constant."
I didn't cry during the call.
Neither did she.
But we both stayed quiet at the end for a long time.
When we hung up, I finally felt something real.
Not rage.
Not betrayal.
Relief.
Like I had just walked out of a burning building barefoot and breathless, but alive.
The next day, I told Phil I couldn't send the money.
He tried to guilt trip me, saying he "wasn't used to being disappointed by me."
I didn't reply.
I blocked him on everything that afternoon.
But I knew it wasn't over.
Because people like Phil don't leave quietly.
They come back when you start breathing again.
Three days later, I returned from internship to find a note slipped under my door.
No envelope. Just my name in slanted handwriting I recognized too well.
The note read:
"You think you won? Watch carefully. Love doesn't end when you decide to stop giving it."
My hands trembled.
For the first time since I found out, I was scared.
Because the lie was gone now.
But something darker was taking its place.